Bruxelles
by Triola
Summary: Of all the places Harry would have expected to run into Draco Malfoy, in front of a shabby waffle stand in Belgium was not one of them. HP/DM. Oneshot.


**Title:** Bruxelles

**Author name:** Triola

**Category:** Romance

**Rating:** T

**Pairings:** Harry/Draco, mentions of Ron/Hermione

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Summary:** Of all the places Harry would have expected to run into Draco Malfoy, in front of a shabby waffle stand in Belgium was not one of them.

**Author notes: **Well, I wrote a story, it would seem. Now, one, I am not a writer, and this is not beta-read, so there are bound to be mistakes. Two, somehow this ended up being just as much a love story between me and Brussels as between Harry and Draco. Three, my French is horrid. That being said, enjoy reading as our boys traipse around in the Belgian capital.

* * *

><p>Harry was exhausted. The hostel he had stayed at in Rotterdam last night had a left a lot to be desired, both when it came to the beds—which were bloody uncomfortable—but also the level of noise. It seemed like an entire youth camp had somehow gotten checked into the same room as him, as well as all the surrounding rooms. Possibly even the surrounding buildings. The ever-present bass of the discotheque next door he could very well have done without. All in all it had been a miserable night, followed by a miserable breakfast consisting of stale bread and overly sweet jam. He had hoped to be able to sleep on the train, but luck had seen fit to place him next to a talkative old lady who had lived as an au pair girl in London in her youth and needed nothing more than his accent to get her going down memory lane. And finally practicing her English again seemed to make her so happy that Harry didn't have the heart to tell her he would rather be sleeping. Which left him where he was, in the middle of <em>Gare du Nord<em> in Brussels, exhausted and starving.

As he looked around the big entrance hall, he saw people bustling to and fro in the hum and drum habit of everyday life. There were businessmen and women, rushing to and from meetings, students on their way to class, or on their way home from a party last night, clothes mussed and hair unkempt as they did their walk of shame as quickly and surreptitiously as they could. Families, elderly couples, people with dogs. Even a blind man making his way towards the exit, his cane performing a step dance of staccato noises against the stone tiles.

It made Harry's head hurt. He needed food, and preferably right now. Searching through the throng of people he noticed what looked to be a burger place towards the back of the hall and he shrugged as his stomach rumbled. He wasn't particularly fond of fast food restaurants, but some chips and a coke would certainly stave off the worst of his hunger. However, as he made his way towards the place—_Quick_ the sign said, he sure hoped they were—something made him stop up in his tracks. There, from a small hole in the wall opposite the burger joint, came the most delicious scent he could ever remember encountering. Heavy, sweet, the smell of freshly baked _something._ It smelled divine!

His mind suddenly changed, Harry strode purposefully towards the small stall and looked at the goods the vendor was selling. Waffles! And not just any kind of waffle—big, chunky Belgian ones. Perfect. He was just about to get his wallet out when he heard a voice from behind him.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

Turning around Harry was suddenly confronted with the image of a man he hadn't seen in years and certainly hadn't expected to meet in front of a shabby waffle stand in Belgium. Tall, blond, pointy as ever—Draco Malfoy in the flesh. Harry could only gape.

"I thought it was you," Malfoy said smugly, looking Harry up and down, seemingly taking in his travel-worn clothes and messy hair. "Hello, Potter."

"I… what… you… hi," Harry floundered, then blushed at his apparent inability to string two words together. "Hello," he corrected, clearing his voice.

Malfoy looked amused. "As articulate as ever," he quipped, but there seemed to be no malice behind his words, so Harry relaxed his shoulders.

"You caught me by surprise," he said honestly, blinking to make sure the other man wasn't a figment of his sleep-deprived mind.

Malfoy shrugged, somehow making the motion look smooth and elegant, despite the fact that Harry couldn't quite shake the feeling that shrugging was a strangely plebeian gesture and at odds with the Malfoy he knew. Had known. "I've always liked to sneak up on people."

"Yes," Harry had to agree, which only added to the feeling of absurdity he was currently experiencing. "But what, I mean. What are you doing here?" He frowned, looking around the shabby entrance hall again. Of all the places he would ever have imagined running into Malfoy, this was definitely not one of them. Belgium, sure, he could imagine the other man as someone who travelled, but a train station? Hardly.

"Well, I live here, so I believe the more valid question is what _you_ are doing here," Malfoy smirked, an oddly familiar gesture that inexplicably calmed Harry and made him want to smile. He fought the impulse.

"You live here? In Brussels?" he asked instead, his curiosity only growing as Malfoy nodded. "But why?"

"No no, Potter, quid pro quo," Malfoy tutted, shaking his finger at Harry. "I'll answer your questions, but only if you answer mine. What are you doing here?"

Now it was Harry's turn to shrug. "Waiting, really. I'm in between rides at the moment and I have some hours to kill before my train leaves for London."

"Why are you taking the train?" Malfoy frowned. "There are perfectly good International Portkeys going in and out of Belgium, you know."

"I know, but I wanted to travel the Muggle way. Call it nostalgia from our school days, but I like the noises and the motion aboard a train. And you get to see more as well, the countryside between cities for example, which I wouldn't get to experience otherwise."

"Well, I suppose," Malfoy conceded. "But you realize the TGV to Waterloo leaves from _Gare Midi_, right? You're in the wrong station."

Harry grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, I got off the train from Rotterdam a stop early, but I only realized once I was off. But I'm still in the right city, so that's something. I was going to find someone to ask for directions after I had eaten," he gestured to the waffle stand.

"Two stops, actually."

"What?"

"You got off two stops early, there's _Gare Centrale_ before you get to _Gare Midi_."

"Oh." Harry blinked. "Well, whatever," he frowned. "One stop, two stops, it doesn't really matter, does it?"

"It might if you believed you were one stop from the correct station, got on a train and repeated the same mistake again," Malfoy said drily, and Harry flushed. Well, if he was going to put it like that.

"Alright, so two stops and I'm in the right place?"

"Yes," Malfoy nodded. "Although that is the easy and boring way."

Harry gave his companion a sceptical glance. "Alright, say I bite, what is the hard and more interesting way?"

"You walk."

Harry couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him at that suggestion. "I walk? Clearly, you have never encountered my sense of direction. Which makes sense, because it is nonexistent."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Well, you would need a guide, obviously. Someone who has been living in the city say three years, give or take a few months."

"Are you offering?" Harry asked surprised.

"I might be."

Harry blinked before furrowing his brow. "What's in it for you?" He asked suspiciously, frowning at the light-haired wizard.

"Hopefully, an interesting afternoon," Malfoy grinned, meeting Harry's sceptical look with a jaunty one of his own.

"Really." Harry said flatly.

Malfoy shrugged again. "I grow bored with Belgian people. They're all so… Belgian," he sneered. "An afternoon of speaking English again would be acceptable."

Harry looked at the other man and couldn't help the realization that suddenly dawned on him. Malfoy was homesick! He would never admit to it, of course, but it was there, a hint of longing even as he insulted the people surrounding him. It was… oddly endearing. "Alright," he said, smiling hesitantly. "That's really decent of you, Malfoy. Thanks."

"I'm a decent person these days, haven't you heard? I've _turned a new leaf,_" Malfoy smirked, his voiced infused with sarcasm.

"So I did hear," Harry murmured as Malfoy turned around and they started walking towards the exit. "But you never answered my question. Why are you living in Brussels?"

"I study here, actually."

"Really?" Harry gaped. "You _study?_"

Malfoy scowled. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, yes. No. I don't know. I just never imagined… I always thought you'd live off your fortune, or something. Dabble in politics. Look down on people who did an honest day's work," Harry couldn't help adding, looking sideways at Malfoy. To his surprise, the other man just chuckled.

"Well, in all honesty, you're not too far off. I study International Politics, squander my inheritance, and look down on Belgian people. It's all very rewarding."

"International Politics?" Harry asked.

"Well, yes, Potter. The area of politics where politicians speak with other politicians from other countries. I'm sure you've heard of it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Prat. I mean, why International Politics and why here? Couldn't you have done that back in England?"

"Certainly, if I wanted a subpar education," Malfoy answered haughtily. "All the important European wizarding companies and unions are located in Brussels. The EuroWiz and the EWEA, with all their subdepartments, as well as the International Muggle/Wizard Relations Board."

Harry felt woefully undereducated in that moment. He knew what the EuroWiz was, Hermione had explained once that it was a sort of common European Wizengamot that dealt with lawmaking and rule breaking, and he also remembered hearing on the WWN that some of their laws were less than popular in England, who could never get themselves to agree with France on anything after the cross-channel trade debacle of the 1960's. However, he had no idea what EWEA was, or that there even existed an international board for Muggle/Wizard relationships. "EWEA?" He asked in the end, curiosity winning over embarrassment, at least for the moment.

"The European Wizarding Economics Affiliation. They deal with trade, the stock market, inflation, that sort of thing," Malfoy explained graciously. "That's not my primary interest, however. I've specialized in the dealings of the EuroWiz."

"And what sort of things do they deal with, then?"

"Well, everything and nothing. It's rather complicated so I won't get into the details, but they are working on a case right now that might interest you. In the wake of your little scuffle with the Dark Lord, they're actually considering the creation of a transnational elite force, especially trained to deal with other fanatical dark art practitioners. The idea is to root them out before they get too influential."

"Oh, well, that might have some merit," Harry said, considering. It would certainly have saved him a lot of trouble if someone had gotten rid of Voldemort before he became powerful.

"Yes, they're putting it to a vote later this month, but I'm not sure it will pass. Russia is balking, no surprise there. Yevgeniya Kovalenko, their Minister of Magic, is battier than my Aunt Bellatrix, so she'll be the first to go if such a force ever came into existence. The old pro-Grindelwald nations are backing her, of course, but the interesting thing is that France is as well. And with France in opposition, who knows where the swing votes will go? It will be a close race, that's certain."

"Yes, for sure," Harry said weakly. He had never really been very interested in politics, and he barely read the papers these days, so he had no idea why France backing Russia was interesting or which countries were swinging their votes. Or whatever.

Thankfully they had just arrived outside and Malfoy changed the subject. "We're going through there," he pointed down the stairs and in what Harry thought, perhaps, was a vaguely southern direction. "That'll take us through to Rue Neuve which is a pedestrian street and one of the most popular shopping areas around here. There's also a stand halfway up that has the best _Gaufres_ in Brussels, much better than the crap you were about to buy inside the station."

"_Gaufres_." The word that rolled so smoothly off Malfoy's tongue seemed to stick to Harry's in strange ways. "That's the waffles?"

"Yes," Malfoy nodded. "There are two kinds, the _Gaufre de Liège_, which is the heavy, sticky, sugary waffle that street vendors sell, and then there's the _Gaufre de Bruxelles_, which is a lighter and squarer version and more commonly found in tea houses or restaurants."

"Which is the better one?"

"They both have merit of course, but sadly I must admit I prefer the Liège waffles."

"Why sadly?" Harry asked, wondering at his companion's choice of words.

"Well, I'd much rather prefer the ones I can get in a descent tea house," Malfoy sniffed. "I sincerely doubt the sanitary conditions of those street shops are up to par."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I bet you magically disinfect them before eating, don't you?" He couldn't help grinning when a pale but noticeable blush started making its way up Malfoy's neck.

"Enough about waffles. I have told you what I'm doing here, but you have yet to tell me what you've chosen to do with your life since the war?"

Harry coughed, clearing his throat. "Honestly, not a whole lot," he admitted.

"Really? I find that hard to believe. It's been what, five years? Surely you must have been doing _something_."

"Uhm, well, the first few months I locked myself up at Grimmauld Place and only really left for the trials. I was feeling sorry for myself, I suppose, but then Ron came and kicked me out of bed, saying that if I wasn't going to join him in the Auror programme, I should at the very least get a job. Problem is, when you're famous it's really quite hard to find a job. Well, a proper one, that is. People wanted me to do all manner of things, everything from modelling to ruling the world, but a proper, menial day-to-day job was hard to come by."

"Boohoo, poor Potter, too famous to work," Malfoy mocked and Harry hit him on the shoulder.

"Stop that, you jerk, do you want to hear this or not?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes and Harry took that as an affirmative.

"Anyway, in the end I ended up helping George in the shop. That's Ron's brother, he owns a joke shop in Diagon Alley."

"Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, I know," Malfoy interjected.

"Right." Harry cleared his voice. "Well, I worked there for a couple of years, then last summer I decided I wanted to do something else for a while, so I decided to do some travelling, and that's pretty much what I've been doing since then. I did Asia first, for a couple of months, then I was back home over Christmas. After that I drove from the East Coast of the U.S. to the West Coast together with some mates, before heading down to Mexico for a while. I stayed a month or so in Brazil in May before heading back home again for Ron and Hermione's wedding, and now I've been doing some of the European countries. Started with France, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, Germany, then up into Holland, and now I just came from Rotterdam and here I am." Harry finished his tale with a small nod.

"So basically you've been living as a hobo and a vagabond for the last year?"

"Well, I wouldn't say a hobo," Harry scowled.

"I'd beg to differ," Malfoy said drily, staring pointedly at his clothes. Harry looked down himself and self-consciously tried to smooth out his wrinkled t-shirt. It was true, together with his scruffy cargo shorts, his worn-out sneakers and the backpack on his back, he didn't exactly look his best, but he was comfortable. And just because Malfoy looked like a Greek god in his dark-blue trousers and crisp white shirt, that didn't mean everyone could pull off a look like that. Harry had always been more on the disinterested side of fashion, and that's where he bloody well liked it.

"Wanker," Harry groused. "After being on the road for weeks, not even_ you_ would manage to look pristine all the time."

"Care to bet on that?" Malfoy smirked and Harry rolled his eyes. No, probably not. If anyone could pull off looking perfect after weeks of living out of a backpack, it was definitely Malfoy.

"How far to that waffle stand?" Harry changed the subject as his stomach rumbled loudly.

"Not too far, be patient. So, Weasley and Granger got married, eh? Big surprise there."

Harry grinned. "Yeah, that didn't really shock anyone."

"How about you? Planning to make the Weaselette an honest woman any time soon?"

"Oh, you _must_ have been out of the country for a while," Harry commented wryly, making Malfoy furrow his brow.

"What do you mean?"

"Ginny and I broke up years ago. It was a big scandal. Especially when the press found out I was playing for the other team, so to speak."

Malfoy snorted. "Yeah, pull the other one, Potter. The Saviour of the Wizarding World gay? Very likely."

"It's true!" Harry shot him a glare.

"No, it's not. Look at you, you're horrifyingly straight." He gestured vaguely in the general direction of Harry's clothes and hair.

Harry rolled his eyes. "So just because I don't fit the stereotype I can't be gay?"

"Well, I suppose…" Malfoy frowned just as they entered the pedestrian street. "Alright, that guy," he pointed to a tall, dark skinned youth with dreads. "Best feature?"

Harry looked him over surreptitiously. "Shoulders."

Malfoy hummed, then picked out another victim. "That one?" A tall, very handsome businessman with steely grey hair and glasses.

"Jaw."

"And that one?"

"Arse, definitely arse," Harry grinned and Malfoy smirked.

"Agreed."

Harry glanced at his companion. "You too, then?"

"Obviously."

"How does that work out with the whole Pureblood marriage and heir thing?" Harry questioned. He couldn't imagine Narcissa Malfoy ever celebrating having a gay son.

"There are many ways to get an heir," Malfoy shrugged, seemingly not worried.

"Yeah, I suppose. Like adoption?" Harry had briefly looked into it himself, out of curiosity. He still wanted a family some day, even if the wife was out of the question.

"Yes, or some manner of surrogacy. Anyway, here we are," he gestured to a small shop in the wall, where the delicious smell of waffles wafted out through the window.

"Thank Merlin," Harry exclaimed in relief and bounded inside, reaching for his wallet. "You want one? My treat. I'll even disinfect it for you," he grinned.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Sure, why not," he smiled and Harry gave him a pleased grin.

"Alright, let's see, two waffles please," Harry said to the man behind the counter, nearly salivating at the smell of the newly baked battercakes.

"_Je suis désolé__, je __ne parle pas anglais_," the middle-aged salesman looked apologetically at Harry, his large moustache drooping at his own shortcoming. "No English. _Désolé_."

"Oh, right. Uhm, two," Harry held up two fingers. "Two waffles." He pointed to the freshly baked waffles. As he struggled to make himself understood, he felt Malfoy lean forward so that his shoulder bumped Harry's.

"_Deux gaufres, s'il vous plait_," he said to the vendor, his Malfoy drawl still very much in place even as he spoke a foreign language.

"_Ah, certainement, Monsieur! Juste un moment_." Certainly, just a moment, Sir. The man shuffled behind the counter and wrapped two golden brown waffles in paper holders. "_Voilà_!" He smiled, handing one to Harry and Malfoy each.

"_Merci_," Harry said as he paid, knowing that much at least, but suspecting from Malfoy's slight grin that it came off sounding awfully English all the same. However, with his waffle finally in hand, that hardly seemed to matter. He took his first bite and couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips. "Circe, that's good! It's like… a doughy, sugary little piece of heaven!"

Malfoy smiled indulgently. "Yes, and very much better than what you would have ended up with had you gone for the one at the station. Wasn't this worth the wait?"

"Merlin, yes," Harry sighed blissfully, closing his eyes.

"Come on," Malfoy smirked, putting his hand on Harry's elbow to guide him out the door. "There is much more to see. Did you know that Brussels prime attraction is a statue of a peeing boy?" He asked conversationally.

"Really?" Harry wondered, incredulous. "You're having me on."

"No, it's true. Haven't you heard about _Manneken Pis_?"

"Um, no," Harry answered truthfully.

"Well, stories would have it that a rich merchant once had his son go missing, and they searched for days without finding him. In despair the merchant vowed that if he ever found his son, he would make a statue of him, in the exact position he was discovered when they finally located him. And well, you can probably reason out how the story ends."

Harry laughed. "Seriously?"

"Well, it's just a legend," Malfoy shrugged. "So it's probably not true, but the statue is there. There's even one of a girl, _Jeanneke Pis_, which is hidden in a back alley behind _Grand Place_."

"Can we see them both?" Harry asked eagerly. After travelling so long on his own and fumbling his way around with the help of maps and navigation spells, it was wonderful to be able to lean back and follow someone who knew the area.

"If you want to," Malfoy nodded. "How long do you have until your train leaves?"

"Oh, ages. It doesn't leave in..." Harry looked down at his watch. "Well, five hours or so. I should probably be at the station around an hour before, but yeah, still plenty of time," he smiled and turned back to his waffle. They walked in relative silence down the street, both eating and Harry busy looking at the people and buildings around him, as well as taking the time to ponder this strange, new Malfoy he had encountered. Harry hadn't seen the other man since the Death Eater trials, specifically the trial to posthumously clear the name of Severus Snape, but he seemed to have put the time to good use. The gaunt, nervous teenager was gone, and in his place stood a confident twenty-three-year-old man. He seemed comfortable. With who and what he was. Harry could still see shadows of the old Malfoy, the smirk, the sarcasm, but he was much more… pleasant. Although, Harry supposed he might always have been, just not towards Harry. Which made sense, other people had seemed to like him well enough. His friends—Parkinson, Zabini, Goyle. Harry suddenly wondered what had happened to them all.

"Do you keep in touch with anyone from school?" Harry asked, licking his fingers as he finished up his waffle.

"Plebeian," Malfoy muttered, his eyes darkening as he watched Harry lick his lips. Harry grinned in response. "But yes, Pansy lives in Switzerland now, but she comes to visit occasionally. I also see her during holidays back home. Blaise will Floo me when he's drunk, but other than that we don't really talk that much. As for Gregory, well, he's become something of a recluse since the war. I visit him when I'm home, but he doesn't really seem very interested in talking to anyone except his toad these days, which puts a damper on the conversation."

"Oh, that sucks."

"Yes," Malfoy agreed, looking away for a second. "How about you?"

"Well, I see my old mates from time to time too—Neville, Seamus and Dean mostly, sometimes Luna—but between their jobs and mine, as well as all the recent travelling, it's becoming rarer and rarer. Though Hermione and Ron are still around, same as always."

"The indestructible Golden Trio," Draco quipped and Harry grinned.

"Yep. Though we'll see how the dynamic changes when they start having children."

"Oh, don't tell me they're thinking of procreating?" Malfoy exclaimed with horror. "Granger's bushy hair is bad enough in brown, imagine it in ginger!"

"Twat," Harry rolled his eyes and punched Malfoy's arm. "For all you know they might end up with Ron's straight hair and Hermione's hair colour."

"No," Malfoy sighed dramatically. "The gods have never liked me well enough for that."

Harry was about to retort when something caught his eye. There, next to the road, was a large drawing—across an entire wall—of a cartoon character dropping a pendulum from a window and onto the head of a passing man. "Wow, look at that, that's amazing!" He exclaimed, all comments about Hermione and Ron's future children forgotten.

"What?" Malfoy turned to look before nodding. "Ah, yes. Brussels is also the comic capital. You'll find murals like that all over town paying homage to different cartoon characters. That's Gaston Lagaffe."

"Really? There's more? Can we see them?"

"Sure. There are quite a few behind _Grand Place_, we can look them up on the way to _Manneken Pis_."

"Awesome," Harry grinned. "Wait, I just have to get a picture of this one first." He took his backpack off and looked through the side pocket for his camera while trying not to let the Muggles notice that the pocket was much larger on the inside than the outside. It appeared to be only a foot or so deep, but he could easily stick his entire arm into it if he wanted to. "Ah, here we are!" He pulled out a regular Muggle disposable camera and snapped a quick picture of the mural. Noticing Malfoy's amused look, he sniffed a little. "I'm a tourist, I'm allowed."

"Whatever you say," Malfoy smirked that infuriating smirk of his and continued slowly in the direction they had been walking, giving Harry time to catch up with him.

"So, what are you planning to do with this International Politics business when you're done?" Harry asked, falling into step with the taller man.

"Become Minister of Magic," Malfoy replied easily and Harry couldn't help laughing.

"Well, you've got ambition if nothing else."

Malfoy shrugged. "I see no reason not to aim high. But I'll also settle for a job within the Department of Foreign Affairs."

"So it's a Ministry desk job for you, then?"

"To a certain degree, yes. Although I trust some amount of travelling will be involved as well, it being the Ministry of _Foreign_ Affairs. But perhaps not within the first few years."

"No, you probably have to work your way up to such privileges," Harry agreed.

"Yes. But what about you? Surely you don't plan to drift aimlessly around forever?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I don't think anyone ever _plans_ to drift around aimlessly, but no. That's not on the agenda. Actually..." he hesitated for a second. "I've not really told this to anyone yet since I only received the letter yesterday, but I've been accepted into the Mediwizard Programme at St. Mungo's. I'll be starting in September."

"A Mediwizard? Really?" Malfoy looked somewhat incredulous.

"Yeah," Harry shrugged, feeling a bit self-conscious. "I like to work with people."

"Yeah, but _sick_ people." The other man wrinkled his nose. "I could never do that. Sick people disgust me."

"Let me guess," Harry grinned slyly. "You get queasy at the sight of blood?"

"No," Malfoy sniffed. "I just don't like sick people. They spread germs everywhere. It's revolting."

Harry laughed. "Well, my job will be to treat people and stop the spreading of germs, so you should thank me."

"Well, I suppose I'm grateful that _someone_ is willing to do the job," Malfoy said grudgingly.

They continued walking and talking, and soon they entered an area where the streets seemed a lot narrower and the people more numerous. There were tourist shops on every corner and a street musician played a lively polka on his accordion while a family watched and applauded, throwing coins into his carefully situated hat.

"This is one of the main dining areas," Malfoy explained as they turned a corner into a street so constricted there scarcely seemed room to walk. Restaurants littered the facades of the buildings on both sides of the road as far as the eye could see, and all of them had tables and awnings stretching into the alleyway. When he looked up Harry could barely see the sky, the canopies from the restaurants stretched so far out into the street they created a colourful canvas roof above them that sheltered from both sun and rain. Along the many entrances to the different establishments, dark-haired men of every age yelled out to the passing tourists, hoping to entice them into their restaurant and away from their competitors.

"_Allemande? Scandinave?_" They yelled as they looked at Malfoy with his tall, blond appearance. German? Scandinavian?

"_Anglais?_" Another man cried, and Harry couldn't help smiling politely. "_Anglais!_ English! English! Come, come, we have special offer today! Lobster for you! Come!"

"Just ignore them," Malfoy murmured and his hand moved to the small of Harry's back, pushing him forwards. "If you talk to them, you'll never get away."

"Are they always this... enthusiastic?" Harry wondered, still not entirely used to the Latin zeal, despite his travels.

"Yes. Bootlicking sycophants the lot of them."

"Well, I suppose they get paid by how well they do," Harry said reasonably.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean they have to be so bloody annoying about it."

"Yeah, they are a bit... well."

"Yes," Malfoy agreed. "In here," he muttered and led Harry into a tiny, grim looking cul de sac. Suddenly the noise from the busy restaurant street seemed to fade away and Harry became acutely aware of the fact that Malfoy still hadn't removed his hand. He was about to ask what they were doing when Malfoy pointed to a niche in the wall covered by a locked iron gate. "Over there," he said and motioned for Harry to walk before him. Harry strode over and peered through the bars, his eyes landing on a small, bronze statue of a young girl. She was squatting down and a jet of water showed that she was clearly meant to be urinating. "_Jeanneke Pis_," Malfoy said, smirking slightly.

"That's amazing," Harry laughed, getting out his camera. "I still half thought you were having me on," he admitted, grinning at his companion.

"Unfortunately not," Malfoy replied, shaking his head. "So tasteless."

"I think it's funny," Harry said, taking his picture.

"You and every other tourist in the world," Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Is the boy one close by?"

"Yes, not too far. We just have to cross over _Grand Place_ first." Malfoy started walking back out of the alleyway and Harry followed him.

"You mentioned that place earlier too, is it something special?" Harry asked curiously.

Malfoy shot him a disbelieving look. "You really didn't read up on Brussels at all before coming, did you?"

"It was just a transit stop, I didn't really plan to do all that much sight-seeing," Harry scowled.

"So what, you were going to sit six hours at _Gare Midi_ and twiddle your thumbs, that was your great plan for Brussels?"

Harry could feel himself flush. "Well, yeah."

"Lucky you ran into me then," Malfoy murmured and gave him a sideways glance.

"Yeah," Harry said honestly, smiling. "So, what's this _Grand Place_ then? It sounds important."

"Next to _Manneken Pis_, it is probably the most important tourist destination in Belgium," Malfoy explained. "It's a large cobblestone square, the central square of the city, and the surrounding buildings are beautiful."

"And we're going there now?"

"Yes, it's right around the corner," Malfoy nodded, and Harry grinned excitedly. As a child he had been somewhat deprived of the travelling and sight-seeing experiences other children had talked about in school, and he was seriously enjoying every opportunity to make up for lost time. They walked into a short alley and as it opened onto the square, Harry felt himself gasp. Surrounding the square were rows of buff-coloured buildings with wonderful, gothic embellishments. Elaborate statues and gilded reliefs adorned the facades and small outdoor restaurants lit up the square with their red and green parasols.

"Oh, this is amazing," Harry gushed, hurrying to the middle of the square so that he could turn around slowly and take it all in. Malfoy followed at a leisurely pace and smiled indulgently at his antics. Taking out his camera, Harry waved at him. "Stand over there!" He grinned, motioning for the blond to take place in front of one of the larger buildings.

"No way," Malfoy said, putting up his hands to ward Harry off.

"Oh, come on, don't be a spoilsport!"

"No, not happening," Malfoy shook his head. "But I might possibly be prevailed upon to take a photograph of you_,_ if you'd like."

"We could probably persuade one of these people to take a picture of both of us together," Harry coaxed. Taking a picture of Malfoy had been a spur of the moment idea, but the more he refused, the more important it suddenly became to succeed.

"It will still involve me in a cheesy, tourist snapshot, so forgive me if I'm disinclined to agree."

"You're such a git," Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine, but I want that picture of me, then." He handed the camera over to the other man.

"Very well. Give us your best pose then, Potter."

Snorting, Harry walked closer to the building and stood there as he always did when he knew he was being photographed—awkwardly.

Malfoy laughed. "Is that really the best you can do?"

"Yes," Harry muttered, folding his arms across his chest defensively.

"And people wanted to you model," Malfoy snorted. "A smile, at least. You look miserable. I am not taking this picture until you feign some excitement, Potter. _Grand Place_ deserves better than your grumpy frown."

Shaking his head in amusement, Harry plastered a big smile on his face. "Better?"

"Much," Malfoy smirked. "Three, two, one..." Click.

"Thanks," Harry smiled genuinely and went to collect his camera. He made to put it away, but just as Malfoy let his guard down and relaxed he quickly snapped a picture of the other man. "Gotcha," he grinned, looking up at his companion.

"Sneaky little wanker," Malfoy muttered, glaring at Harry.

"I like to sneak up on people too," Harry smiled serenely, recalling the blond's earlier comment as they met at the station.

"Clearly," Malfoy huffed and Harry felt mightily pleased with himself. He put away the camera and looked around the square once more.

"What is that building over there?" He asked, pointing to the largest building surrounding the square, a majestic and ornate construction with a tall tower protruding from the roof.

"That's the _Hôtel de Ville_, the City Hall," Malfoy commented, examining the building in question. "Notice how the tower isn't centred, but positioned slightly to the right?" Harry nodded, having wondered about that. "Word has it that the architect actually meant for the building to be perfectly symmetric, but the builders bollixed it up. When the architect noticed he became so horrified he threw himself off the tower and perished."

"That's horrible!" Harry exclaimed, frowning.

"And utterly moronic, but that's perfectionism for you."

"I remember you being rather the perfectionist?"

"Well, yes, but I'm not stupid enough to off myself when something doesn't go according to plan. I just bide my time and make a second attempt at a later point."

"Very sensible of you."

"Yes, I rather thought so," Malfoy replied, turning up his nose.

"Arrogant arse," Harry grinned.

That earned him a snort from his escort. "Ignorant philistine."

It was strange how their insults felt more like light banter than anything else, but Harry wasn't going to complain. This was one of his most interesting trips to date. "So, where to next?"

"Well, there's _Manneken Pis_ just down the road from here, and you also wanted to see more of the comic murals?"

"Yeah, definitely," Harry nodded enthusiastically.

"Alright then, this way." Malfoy made his way through the thin crowd of other tourists, telling him about the different houses of the _Grand Place_ as they walked. They strolled onto a road leading away from the square and followed it past various tourist shops and waffle stands. They made several turns onto new streets, and every now and then Malfoy would point and show Harry another mural on the wall. He had counted five by the time Malfoy suddenly came to a halt and motioned to their left. There, inside a stone niche and perched on top of a relief, was a tiny statue of a peeing boy. He couldn't have been more than two feet tall, and the big alcove around him just made him look smaller.

"It's so tiny!" Harry exclaimed, standing on his toes to look above the heads of the other tourists and get a proper glance.

"Yes, that's the most common reaction. Belgium's grand attraction—a miniature boy passing water from a pedestal. Give me Lord Nelson any day."

"Well, at least the boy is visible," Harry said, snapping a picture. "With Lord Nelson up there on his column, you can hardly even see him."

"But it's such a nice, long column," Malfoy hummed, looking at Harry askance.

"It's too big if you ask me. It defeats the purpose of having a statue if you can't even see it."

"I disagree. Long, thick, stretching proudly skywards—I'd say it's the perfect... column." Malfoy drawled, smirking broadly as Harry flushed beat red. "But perhaps it's too much for you to handle, Potter?"

"I can handle it just fine," the dark-haired man muttered, feeling his cheeks burn. "Besides, it's not the size that matter, it's how you use it," he challenged, looking Malfoy in the eye.

"And in what manner do you propose Lord Nelson should have put his column to better _use_ then?" His companion murmured, grinning.

"Differently situated, the statue would meet the column in a more desirable... spot, so to speak. To the increased pleasure of all involved," he added.

"I would ask you to give a more visual demonstration of how you suggest the column be placed, but I fear it would scare the natives," Malfoy smirked, looking around.

Harry felt heat pool in his stomach. What had the world come to? He was... _flirting._ With Malfoy. Somewhere a long line of Malfoys must be rolling around in their graves. "I thought the French were rather famous for their... statues?" Harry quipped, thinking about all the jokes he'd heard about French girls from Seamus throughout the years.

"Aye, but sadly the Belgians are a whole different story. Just look at _Manneken Pis_. So tiny."

"You must have been very disappointed," Harry grinned.

Malfoy sighed melodramatically. "Vastly. But I've learnt to cut my losses and soldier on."

"Atta boy," Harry consoled, patting his companion on the shoulder.

"Besides," Malfoy murmured, gazing down at him. "As you must have noticed, I'm something of a chauvinist. Everything is better if it's English." He gave Harry an appraising look, making the other man flush again.

"Hmm, I don't know, I quite like the French accent," Harry replied airily, pretending not to have noticed Malfoy's assessment.

"Is that so?" Malfoy purred, his grin turning almost feral. "_Est-ce que mon petit Harry est excité par la langue française?_"

Harry had no idea what Malfoy was saying, but he knew that the language, the tone, the voice and the person speaking were all combining to make him light-headed. "What did you say?" He breathed, leaning involuntarily forwards.

"I just asked whether the French language excites you," Malfoy answered, his intent look betraying his nonchalant tone.

"Oh," Harry blushed again. "Well, yeah, to be honest, a bit." He grinned and self-consciously scratched the back of his neck.

"Really?" Malfoy laughed.

"Well, yeah. It's a really nice language," Harry muttered defensively.

"I suppose. I've known it since I was five, so to me it's pretty much the same as English."

"Seriously, since you were five?" Harry blinked. When he was five he hadn't even been in school, let alone learning a whole language.

"My father believed in a comprehensive education," Malfoy shrugged. "I had private tutors in English, French, Latin, Geography and History at the age of five."

"Wow, that's… hardcore."

Malfoy smirked. "I guess you could say that. Now, are you up for more sightseeing?"

Harry groaned. "To tell the truth, I'm exhausted and my feet are killing me. Perhaps we could sit down somewhere for a little while?"

"Certainly," Malfoy nodded. "Dinner then? I'm feeling slightly peckish."

"Yeah, that sounds brilliant." Harry smiled in relief.

"I know just the place. _Chez Léon_. We passed it in the restaurant street on our way to _Grand Place_. The interior leaves something to be desired, but their _Moules_ are superb."

"_Moules?_"

"Mussels."

"Ewww," Harry wrinkled his nose. "Do they have other things as well?"

"Well, yes, but you have to eat mussels while in Belgium. It's the national dish. Mussels and chips with mayo."

"No way, I am not eating that. I had oysters once at a Ministry event and it was godawful! Slick and slimy and disgusting," Harry shuddered.

"You shouldn't write it off before you've tried it."

"I see absolutely no problem with that."

"What are you, five?"

Harry barely resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. "If it gets me out of eating mussels, then yes, I am."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Fine, they have beef as well. Come on."

Smiling happily Harry followed Malfoy as they made their way back towards _Grand Place_ and the restaurant street. Harry had already forgotten which streets they walked to get here, but Malfoy made his way through the crowds of people like an expert, so Harry just let him handle it and followed suit. He did recognize when they entered the cramped restaurant street again, but when he looked up at the building Malfoy stopped in front of, he was very surprised. With its bright neon sign and green and red striped awning, _Chez Léon_ looked a mix between an American diner and the street cafés he'd seen in Paris. It wasn't exactly the restaurant he would imagine a Malfoy frequenting, but then, this new Malfoy wasn't how he imagined in a lot of ways, so perhaps that was alright.

They were quickly ushered inside by a waiter and as Malfoy conversed in French, Harry took the time to look around. Beige stone tiles and warm wooden panels adorned the floors and walls, together with pictures, painted murals, and more neon lit signs. The tables were small and square, covered with green and white chequered tablecloths with white paper covers on top. The waiter led them up a flight of stairs to the first floor, which was similarly decorated. Greens, browns and whites seemed to be recurring themes throughout the restaurant, lending an almost rustic feel to the place. Harry followed Malfoy and the waiter around several corners before they arrived at a round table with a green leather booth surrounding it.

"After you," Malfoy murmured and motioned for Harry to scoot in. He did just that and smiled as Malfoy sat down across from him, his long legs tangled with Harry's underneath the small table. They were given their menus by the waiter, and Harry opened it, looking curiously at the selection. It was all in French.

"I don't understand any of this," he admitted, looking at Malfoy.

"Of course, forgive me," the other man said and moved closer to Harry. "Let's see… on this page you have the drinks here, and then the seafood. And this… you're not a vegetarian, are you?"

The accusatory tone made Harry chuckle and he shook his head. "No, definitely not."

"Oh, good. Then we can skip that too. Let's see, starters. Do you want a starter?"

"Are you having one?"

"Yes. They have delicious _Escargots de Bourgogne_ here."

"There you go speaking French again," Harry muttered and from Malfoy's grin he really suspected the git was doing it on purpose.

"Snails. I'm having Burgundy snails."

"What?" Harry exclaimed in disbelief. "You're eating _snails_?"

"Well, yes. It's a delicacy," Malfoy drawled, smiling in amusement.

"That's disgusting," Harry grimaced, imagining a plate full of slimy garden snails, crawling all over each other as you tried to pierce them with your fork.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever tried it?"

"Well, no. But they're _snails_."

"Again acting the child," Malfoy rolled his eyes. "But they have other options. A paté, smoked salmon, cheese croquettes, different kinds of shrimp and scampi, chicories _au gratin_. The last one is also a Belgian specialty."

"Chicories? Well, I suppose that's not so bad. Alright, I can try that," Harry agreed, wanting to try something local, but definitely not ready to jump the snails and mussels wagon.

"Look at you, trying something new like a big boy," Malfoy cooed and Harry elbowed him in the side.

"Wanker. What are the main courses?"

Malfoy turned the page. "Well, they have different salads and pastas, as well as meat, fowl or fish. What do you feel like?"

"Some kind of meat sounds good," Harry said, looking down at the menu. "_Entrecôte_ I know what is," he smiled, pointing. "What are the side dishes?"

"It doesn't say, but chips and some vegetables, most likely. That's usually what they serve it with. And then you can choose your own sauce," Malfoy said, pointing to a list next to the meats. "Béarnaise, a creamy tomato sauce, mushroom sauce, green pepper and cream, garlic and tomato, Provençale… there are quite a few choices."

"I think I'll just have the green pepper sauce," Harry said, making up his mind.

"Good choice," Malfoy nodded. "Do you want wine?"

"I'm really tired, wine might make me fall asleep," Harry admitted, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

"Well, you can sleep on the train, can't you?" Malfoy smiled, coaxing.

"True," Harry laughed. "Oh, why not?"

The waiter soon came with his notebook and as Malfoy listed their order in perfect French, Harry couldn't help the slight shiver that coursed through him. Hearing that low, masculine voice speak in those rolling, melodic tones was hypnotizing. And very hot. Suddenly he felt an elbow jab him in the side and he realised that Malfoy was speaking to him. "What?" He asked sheepishly, feeling himself redden.

Malfoy smirked. "How do you want your meat? Rare, medium, well done?"

"Oh, medium is fine, thanks," Harry smiled and nodded to the waiter, who seemed to understand the word medium at least, if not much else. He and Malfoy continued their conversation in French again, and when the waiter finally left, Harry almost sighed in relief. Or at the loss. He wasn't entirely certain which.

"So, how long do you have left of your study?" Harry asked, grasping for something to talk about. Malfoy still hadn't moved away from his position close to him, and it left Harry feeling very nervous.

"I've just completed the general part of the course, which is three years. Some people stop after this, but it's more common to try to seek an apprenticeship within the branch of international politics that interests you the most," Malfoy explained. "Of course, not all succeed in this venture. Most Masters of Politics have quite high standards and they do not accept just anyone. Which is quite right, a certain screening is absolutely necessary at this stage. Some people were just not meant for politics."

"Who are you apprenticing under, then?" Harry wondered, knowing without a doubt that Malfoy wouldn't be telling him this if he hadn't already been accepted into an apprenticeship.

Malfoy smirked. "Cyril Aylford, the English ambassador to the legislative branch of the EuroWiz. He's an absolute genius. The Wizarding Hospital and Infirmary Assistance Act of 1992 was almost single-handedly his doing, and it changed health care systems throughout all of Europe." Harry had never heard of that, of course, but he could see that Malfoy was really proud to have been accepted by this guy.

"Congratulations," he grinned, bumping his knee into Malfoy's.

"Thank you." The other man gave him a genuine smile that left Harry blinking and berating his brain for stupidly thinking that the entire room seemed just a little bit brighter all of a sudden. "The apprenticeship lasts for two years, then I'll hopefully have my own mastery approved."

"That's wonderful. And you'll already have a shoe in at the Department of Foreign Affairs through Aylford."

"That was rather the idea," Malfoy smirked, moving his knee so that it rested firmly next to Harry's. "How about you? Am I right in thinking that the Mediwizard Programme is four years?"

"Yeah, that's right," Harry nodded, clearing his throat. His leg felt obscenely warm where Malfoy's touched it. "Two years of theory, then two years out in the field, so to speak."

"Any special floor of St. Mungo's you're interested in?"

"I'm not sure. I've thought about Spell Damage, of course, that's where every new Healer or Mediwizard wants to go, but I also find Creature-Induced Injuries a really interesting unit. Ron's dad stayed there back in '95 after a snake bite, and this one Healer, or he was a Trainee Healer back then I think, did this fascinating thing where he combined Muggle and Wizarding methods of healing. Looking back, that was really what first got me interested in the field, so if he's still there, I would definitely like to work under him."

Malfoy nodded. "That idea has some value. You wouldn't have caught me saying this three years ago, but after living in Brussels for so long I've become rather more exposed to Muggles than I ever expected to be. The wizarding community here is much more integrated with the Muggle one. Brussels doesn't have a Diagon Alley or anything similar to _Le Quartier de __Sorcelleri_e in Paris, all the wizarding shops and locations here are scattered throughout the Muggle city. You can Floo in between, of course, but due to the frequent work on the Floo lines, it is often just as quick to walk or take the _Metro_."

"Is that what you were doing at the station? Taking the _Metro_?" Harry asked, trying to visualize it and failing utterly.

"Well, yes," Malfoy said, looking at him strangely. "What else would I have been doing there? _Gare du Nord_ is not exactly a place I would frequent out of pleasure."

"I—well, yeah. I just really can't picture you on the _Metro_," Harry admitted sheepishly. "It's strange enough seeing you in proper Muggle attire."

"With legs like these, it would be a shame _not_ to wear Muggle attire," Malfoy sniffed haughtily.

"You could always make a split in your robes."

"Now you're just being tacky."

Harry grinned. "Yeah. I've never been a fan of robes either. Feels too much like putting on a bloody dress."

That made Malfoy snort. "I've heard that argument from Muggle-raised people before, but I really don't see how the two are comparable. It's like saying you don't want to put on a shirt, because it feels too much like a blouse. Or you don't like wearing socks because they feel like tights."

"What, no, that's not the same at all!" Harry protested.

"Really? How is it different then?"

"I—well, a robe is much more like a dress!"

"That's not an argument. There is nothing dress-like about a properly tailored robe for men. In fact, nothing better showcases a set of masculine shoulders than a pair of robes with a tapered waist and narrow skirt."

Harry shook his head. "Just hearing the word 'skirt' used about men's clothes sounds all wrong to me," he admitted.

"Why? It's the proper term for the section of the robe that is below the waist."

"Yes, but—I don't know. I guess it shouldn't make a difference, but it's one of those things that seem really foreign when you're not raised in the wizarding world."

"Well, I suppose I can see that," Malfoy conceded. "When I first ventured into the Muggle world I found it really strange that they would limit an entire type of garment to one sex. It seems rather ridiculous, if you ask me."

"I—yeah, I suppose," Harry admitted, thinking about it. "I hadn't considered it like that before."

"Well, don't consider it too hard, you might overtax yourself," Malfoy said lightly and moved back to his own side of the table as the waiter brought their starters and their drinks.

"I've chosen a different selection for the different courses," Malfoy explained when Harry gave him a perplexed look after the waiter poured them wine from two different bottles. "It would be absurd to drink the same wine when you are eating chicories and I am having _escargots_."

"Ah, of course," Harry rolled his eyes. _Of course_ Malfoy would be a wine snob. "Well, in my world there are only two different kinds of wine. The ones that taste good and the ones that don't." He toasted Malfoy with his glass and took a sip. "This one was good though."

"You're so..." Malfoy seemed to be struggling to find the word.

"Uncivilized?" Harry suggested lightly.

"Yes."

That made Harry grin. "It's part of my charm."

"So it would seem," Malfoy murmured and took a sip of his own wine.

Not sure how to take that, Harry turned to his meal. Two medium sized chicories lay in the middle of a small casserole dish, covered in cheese and what looked to be a cream sauce. A delicious scent wafted up with the tendrils of steam and Harry could feel his stomach growling loudly. Eager to appease it, he carefully cut off a morsel and lifted the fork to his mouth, tasting this apparent Belgian specialty. "This is really good," he gushed to Malfoy once he had swallowed. The sauce turned out to be a mild cheese sauce that complimented the bitter taste of the chicories remarkably well.

"You don't have to sounds so surprised," the other man smirked, as he looked to his own plate. It was a strange looking one, clearly made for the purpose of serving snails. It had eight small depressions in a circle around a ninth, and in each hollow rested a snail in a pool of what Harry derived to be garlic butter, judging from the smell. Malfoy took his fork and fished one out, a blissful expression on his face as it made its way past his lips.

Shaking his head, Harry returned his focus to his own meal. "I wasn't surprised, just happy. I like good food."

"I should hope so," Malfoy laughed. "I wouldn't consider liking bad-tasting food to be a very desirable trait."

Harry cocked his head to the side. "But can it be considered bad-tasting if you _like_ it?"

"Hmmm, fair point," his companion mused. "But I suppose it might be possible to like the sensation of eating bad-tasting food while still finding the taste revolting."

"Who would enjoy eating something they don't like?" Harry wrinkled his nose. "That's just crazy."

Malfoy shrugged. "There are a lot of crazy people in the world, and many of them like things that aren't normally considered pleasant. Pain, for example."

"Yeah, but that's different."

"How so?" Malfoy asked, eating another snail.

"That's—well," Harry felt himself redden. "Sexual."

Malfoy smirked. "Hmmm, sexual," he drawled, making Harry blush all the more furiously. "But on a more serious note, it doesn't have to be."

"Oh?"

"Some people find comfort in the sensation of pain when, for example, they are in great emotional turmoil."

"You sound as if you're speaking from personal experience," Harry said carefully, putting down his fork.

Malfoy sneered. "Are you asking me if I cut myself when I'm feeling sad and lonely?"

"Don't be a prick, Malfoy," Harry frowned. "But yes."

Malfoy sighed. "No. I don't."

"I sense a but," Harry said hesitantly, wondering whether pursuing this was a sensible course of action with the way Malfoy had sneered at him, yet still too much of a bumbling Gryffindor to pull back now. He briefly wondered whether he would ever grow out of that.

Malfoy gave him a long, searching look before he leaned back in his seat, one arm resting along the top of the booth. "But Pansy did," he acknowledged. "A lot, during and after the war. It was a rough while until we managed to convince her she needed help, never knowing when the melancholy was going to strike her and whether she would cut off anything important the next time."

"Ah," Harry nodded, giving the other man a sympathetic smile. "We had something similar with George, Ron's brother. Well, not the cutting, but the worries. He did a lot of really stupid and dangerous things for a while, mostly while drunk, but also sober. It was like he'd completely stopped caring after Fred died. I don't know, it was hard. We'd all lost people, but George, it was like he'd lost himself. That he was nothing without Fred."

"Was that why you started working with him at the shop?"

"Partly, yes," Harry admitted. "The family needed to know that George wouldn't do anything stupid while experimenting at work, and I needed something to do, so yeah."

"And is he doing alright now?" Malfoy asked and Harry appreciated the effort. He knew there was no love lost between the Malfoys and the Weasleys.

"Yeah, much better. He's still not the same as before, of course, but he's making jokes and working hard to keep the shop going. He's even thinking of expanding. Zonko is getting old and George has been meeting with him and his grandson about the possibility of buying them out."

"A man of ambition," Malfoy nodded approvingly.

"Yeah," Harry smiled. "What about Parkinson? Is she doing alright?"

"Yes," the blond man affirmed. "She is living in Switzerland now, like I said, and a change of scene did wonders for her. As did meeting a rich, handsome Swiss man who is more than happy to indulge her in her 'shopping therapy'," he added drily.

"Ah, yes, that will do the trick," Harry grinned.

"But enough about the war and its consequences," Malfoy muttered, finishing off the last of his snails. "I prefer my dinner conversations to be of the lighter sort."

"Agreed," Harry nodded. "So, tell me more about Belgium." And Malfoy did. As the waiter took away their empty plates, Malfoy told Harry about the strange, little country he stumbled into. Apparently they spoke all of three different languages, and although Malfoy mostly frequented the French part, he assured Harry he was more than capable of making himself understood in both Flemish and German as well.

"So, how many languages do you know?" Harry asked in fascination, looking at the man sitting opposite him.

"Well, English and Latin, obviously. French you have heard. Italian is basically the same as Latin, well, similar enough that it was easy to learn. Then I speak German fluently as well, and some amount of Flemish and Dutch, enough to get by."

"Wow, that's a lot," Harry breathed, impressed despite himself. He'd always known Malfoy was book smart, if not always life smart, but seven languages, that was beyond admirable. "I just speak English really. Well, some Spanish and Portuguese after travelling in Mexico and Brazil, and a word or two in Chinese and Japanese, but it's all mostly along the lines of 'check, please,' and 'where can I find the nearest hostel?'"

"Well, you can get far with that," Malfoy said graciously, smiling.

"Yeah, all the way to the nearest hostel," Harry grinned and Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean."

"Well, yeah. And I do get by, English works wonderfully most places, and if there's ever a problem, I can always cheat with a translation spell."

"Ugh, translation spells are horrid, they always leave my ears ringing and you have to renew them all the time."

"Yeah, they're not optimal, but you get used to it," Harry shrugged and turned his attention to the waiter approaching with their main courses, as well as a new selection if wine. His own entrée looked wonderful of course, with meat, chips, steamed vegetables and a copious amount of green pepper sauce, but it was Malfoy's dish that caught his attention. His mussels seemed to have been served just the way they were cooked, within their shells and in a large cast iron pot. A plate of chips accompanied them, as well as a sizeable dollop of mayonnaise.

"That looks..."

"Much better than your own course?" Malfoy smirked.

"Much more interesting, certainly," Harry laughed. "How do you eat them?" It looked as if he would need some kind of special fork to be able to pull the mussels out of their shell, but Malfoy surprised him by taking one mussel and pressing the two valves of the shell together to create a makeshift pair of pliers which he used to extract the tender, orange innards from another shell.

"Like so," the light-haired man concluded, eating the morsel of food he had just obtained.

"With your fingers? Isn't that a bit... well," Harry coughed. He would never in a million years have imagined Malfoy eating anything at all with his fingers.

"Yes," Malfoy nodded his agreement. "It would never serve at a Malfoy dining table, but when in Rome," he shrugged and extracted another piece from within a blue-black shell. "Would you like to try some?" He held out the piece to Harry, still lodged within the pinch of the improvised shell utensil. "They're steamed in white wine."

Harry looked hesitantly between Malfoy's face and the offered titbit. On one hand, the idea of eating mussels didn't exactly appeal to him, but on the other, he was hard pressed to back down from the challenging gleam in Malfoy's eyes. In the end, his competitive spirit won out and he found himself nodding. "Alrigh, let's try this delicacy of yours then," he said, extending his hand for the proffered shell.

"No, no, allow me," Malfoy murmured and leaned in, bringing the shell to Harry's lips. Harry blushed profusely, but opened his mouth obligingly. "What do you think?" Malfoy breathed, his eyes dark and intent as they watched Harry.

Harry chewed thoughtfully before swallowing the morsel. "Well, not as bad as I suspected."

"But still bad?"

"No, not really," Harry had to admit. "In all honesty it tasted a lot like shrimp. Though the consistency was different that I would have imagined. Chewier, somehow. It wasn't exactly the best thing I've ever tasted, but I could eat it if someone served it at a function or something. Though, in all honesty it looks like it's more work than it's worth," he commented, gesturing to the pile of shells.

Malfoy snorted. "More work than it's worth," he mimicked. "Clearly your taste in food in somewhat subpar."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Much like my taste in everything else?" He muttered, turning to his own plate to cut off a piece of the delicious looking entrecôte.

"Well, yes," Malfoy said lightly, eating one of his chips dipped in a generous amount of mayo. "But I have a small hope for your taste in men."

Harry had just been about to swallow the first bite of his meal, but at Malfoy's comment he found himself coughing and spluttering as he gasped and the piece of meat became lodged in his throat. Malfoy looked alarmed and scooted closer, hitting him repeatedly on the back until Harry could feel the piece dislodging and he was able to swallow properly. He drew a great breath and exhaled slowly as Malfoy poured him a glass of water. "Here, drink," he urged, and Harry nodded and accepted the glass, taking two large sips before putting it back down.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, glancing up at the man sitting next to him.

"You have appalling table manners," Malfoy murmured, but his hand was still on Harry's back, moving in soothing circular patterns across his spine.

"I—yes. So I've been told," Harry smiled hesitantly, his heart beating hard within his chest. He wondered why he had never noticed this before, but Malfoy smelled really good. Something almost sweet, and spicy, like—

"Having you choke to death would really have put a damper on my evening." Malfoy interrupted his thoughts, and Harry blinked rapidly, trying to regain his sense of the conversation.

"Really?" Harry grinned, giving Malfoy a coy look. "I can remember a time when it would have done anything but."

"Yes, well," Malfoy coughed. "Times change."

"I'm glad they do," Harry murmured, boldly reaching out to squeeze the other man's knee. It was worth it when the he was treated to a brilliant smile and a lingering touch before Malfoy retreated back to his own side of the table, and the mountain of mussels that awaited him. The rest of the meal seemed to fly by in a daze, and Harry felt almost as if they were dancing back and forth as Malfoy upped the ante, trading banter and charming witticisms only for the occasional innuendo. Harry would never have imagined he could laugh so much in the company of a man he had once disliked so fiercely, but he suspected the wine helped. When it became time to pay the bill, Malfoy refused to let Harry pay his half, despite earnest insistence.

"You paid for the waffles," he argued, pulling out his wallet.

"But that was like a couple of Euros or something! This is an entire meal!"

"I invited you to dinner, therefore it is only appropriate that I pay," Malfoy said in an infuriatingly calm tone.

"But that's ridiculous, it's not as if this was a—" Harry hesitated suddenly. A date. It hadn't been, had it? He looked at Malfoy, who gazed back, his eyes unreadable beneath his light fringe.

"If you would like us to split the bill, like associates or friends," Malfoy said slowly. "We can."

Harry hesitated. Malfoy was giving him an out, but suddenly he wasn't sure if he wanted it. What would the harm be in letting Malfoy pay and call this a date? He was leaving soon anyway, it didn't really matter. "Alright," he smiled tentatively. "You can pay. Thank you for the meal."

Malfoy gave him a dazzling smile and made up with the waiter as Harry gathered his backpack together and put it back on. They walked slowly outside where the afternoon had started darkening into night, and the streets had come alive with even more people, seeking the restaurants of the crowded little street for dinner and an evening out.

"How long until your train leaves?" Malfoy wondered, as he rolled down the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt and buttoned the cuffs.

Harry looked down at his watch. "An hour and twenty minutes, maybe."

"And you need to be at the station an hour before?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded, looking up at Malfoy through the fringe of his hair.

"We should probably head in the direction of _Gare Centrale_ then, so you can catch a train or the underground down to _Gare Midi_."

"Alright," Harry nodded and they started walking, the quiet between them a marked difference to the life of the city around them. On occasion Malfoy's hand would brush by Harry's as they walked, making him smile, but other than that there was no communication.

They walked in silence until Malfoy motioned for them to take a right, into a back alley between two buildings. "Through here, it's a short cut," he murmured, gesturing for Harry to walk before him. The brunet complied, but he wasn't far into the dark alley before he felt himself abruptly seized and spun around until his back rested firmly against the wall and Malfoy equally firm against his front.

"Hello," he whispered, afraid to break the silence by talking, but equally afraid of what might happen if he didn't say or do something.

"Hello," Malfoy agreed, his breath ghosting against Harry's cheek as he exhaled. He leaned closer, then closer still, his eyes focussed intently on Harry's as if expecting him to bolt any second. Harry could feel his heart thumping in his chest, loudly and erratically, and his breath was coming in short pants. Part of him wanted to close his eyes in anticipation of the kiss he knew was coming, had to come, but another part wanted to keep them as wide open as possible, gazing into Malfoy's eyes for as long as the distance would let them.

He kept them open. Waiting, gazing, terrified and exhilarated as Malfoy leaned even closer, only a hair's breadth between their lips now, but still not touching. It was agonizing. Perched on the precipice, Malfoy seemed content to wait forever, just starring into Harry's eyes as their breath's mingled in the warm summer evening. Perched, ready to fall, but not quite there yet. Harry did the only thing he could—he jumped.

Leaning up, he closed the distance between his mouth and Malfoy's, feeling the soft, dry lips move tentatively against his own, gaining more courage as the kiss was returned. It was strange, inconceivable, yet heart achingly sweet.

"This wasn't a short cut, was it?" Harry breathed, drawing back just a fraction.

"No."

"Sneaky."

"Thanks," Malfoy grinned before diving back in, this time with increased ardour. Harry felt a questing tongue lapping at his lips and he opened his mouth in reply, groaning as it swiped gently against the roof of his mouth. His right hand had somehow found its way into Malfoy's hair and he clung on for dear life, pressing that amazing mouth ever closer as his second hand slowly caressed the other man's jaw, the feeling of rough stubble sending sparks of heat to his groin.

"This is insane," Harry panted, pulling away and looking up at Malfoy.

"Is it?"

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed. "We don't even like each other."

"Don't we?" His companion murmured, leaning in for another kiss. Harry allowed it for a minute or two before he pulled back again.

"You think I look like a hobo!"

"Do I?"

"Yes, you said so yourself earlier," Harry scowled.

"Well, yes, alright," Malfoy conceded. "But a very adorable hobo," he smirked.

"Pompous git," Harry muttered, but he flushed at the compliment.

"Scruffy mongrel."

Harry sighed, voicing his final point of objection. "I'm leaving in little over an hour."

"Yes, about that," Malfoy drawled, his hand tracing patterns along Harry's midriff underneath his t-shirt.

"What?" The dark-haired man breathed, exhaling heavily as the hand touched a sensitive area just below his ribs.

"You should stay for a while longer."

"What?" Harry repeated, not sure he had heard him correctly.

"Stay. Portkey back at a later date. I'll get you through Belgian bureaucracy, don't worry."

"I—" Harry hesitated. The offer was very tempting.

"Do you have anywhere in England you need to be tomorrow?"

"Well, no."

"How about the day after?"

"No," Harry smiled.

"And the day after that?" Malfoy's breath ghosted across his face.

"No."

"Then stay. Come home with me. I promise you'll sleep better in my bed than you ever would on the train," Malfoy's sly grin made Harry feel as if his stomach was filled with fireworks.

"Very tempting."

"And I promise I'll show you the rest of the sights. Atomium, Le Palais de Justice, the Comic Strip Centre, all the museums and cathedrals, the wizarding locations. There's so much you haven't seen yet," Malfoy coaxed.

Harry smiled. "But what if it doesn't work? What if we wake up tomorrow and we're back to fighting?"

"Then it's the easiest thing in the world for you to jump on a train back to England."

"And what if it works?" Harry gulped, giving voice to the thought that scared him the most.

"Then there are perfectly good International Portkeys going in and out of Belgium," Malfoy said softly, his thumb stroking the lightest caress over Harry's cheek as he cradled his head with his hand. "Alright?"

"Alright," Harry whispered, his hands reaching up to fist themselves in Malfoy's shirt, pulling him closer.

"Are you sure?" Malfoy—maybe Draco now—breathed against his lips.

"I—yes. Yes." And as Harry leaned up to kiss him he couldn't help thinking that this was beyond a doubt his most interesting journey as of yet.


End file.
